


V is for Valentine

by AbsurdHerb



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Dancing, Dating, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Gift Giving, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Multi, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Past Infidelity, Valentine's Day Fluff, cause that's what you get with Johnny and Rogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsurdHerb/pseuds/AbsurdHerb
Summary: A collection of one-shot ficlets about various Night City Valentine's dates in no particular order. 100% fluff because I'm single and felt like indulging. I'll update the pairing tags if I add any more.
Relationships: Judy Alvarez/V, Kerry Eurodyne/Johnny Silverhand, Kerry Eurodyne/V, Panam Palmer/V, Rogue Amendiares & V, Rogue Amendiares/Johnny Silverhand, V/River Ward
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	V is for Valentine

**1\. Johnny/Kerry**

Some bands might have been eager to schedule gigs on Valentine’s Day. Samurai wasn’t one of them. Neither their crowd nor their music inclined one towards the sentimental and loving mood. That has the fortunate side effect that tonight, each of them was all-but-guaranteed to be free.

Well, maybe not all of them. Denny had plans—with Henry, maybe? Nancy vanished yesterday and had yet to show back up. When you break it down, run your finger down the list, it’s just Johnny and Kerry who are free. But if Kerry’s honest, that’s all of Samurai that he cares to see.

“Someone’s eager,” Johnny says.

Kerry curls his fingers around metal ones and tugs. He doesn’t have to look back to recognize Johnny’s wolfish grin. “Bite me, Silverhand.”

In one swoop, Johnny obliges, pressing him against the door and nipping at Kerry’s neck. Kerry indulges him and the sensation for a minute, tilting his head back. When it begins to escalate, he snakes a hand along the wood behind him and turns the handle. They stumble through the doorway, tripping over each other’s feet.

“Fuckin’ brat,” Johnny snorts. “Can’t let a good thing lie?”

Kerry nudges the door shut with a foot, and leans against Johnny’s chest, maneuvering him back until he collapses on the bed with a soft grunt. “C’mon,” he scoffs. “You didn’t really want to fuck me in the hall.”

Johnny’s hands slip up Kerry’s sides, gentle and fond in a way his face rarely reflects. "Wouldn’t be the first time. But this works too.”

Kerry leans down, lips parted, then up at the last moment to brush their noses together. Johnny hisses at the fakeout and rolls his hips in retaliation. 

Kerry laughs. “Now who’s eager?”

“Me,” Johnny says, unrepentant. “C’mon, Ker—”

Johnny gets his way. He usually does.

//

An hour or so later, the light has faded from the window, and some of their energy has faded with it. Kerry hazards a glance up. Johnny’s propped upright in bed, atop the covers. His eyes drift half-shut, heavy lashes obscuring his eyes in rare relaxation. If Kerry were a bolder man, he might credit himself. For now, he blames the cigarette pinched between Johnny’s metal fingers.

Kerry shifts up. Johnny’s arm winds tighter around his shoulder in response.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Kerry says.

Johnny stiffens. He swings his feet onto the floor, grinding out the dropped cigarette, and strides over to where his clothes landed earlier.

Kerry should have expected as much.

“Johnny?”

Johnny swears, tossing his pants aside, and starts in on his jacket, probing hands into each pocket. 

“Ah! Got it.” 

He brandishes a package overhead, small enough that his palm dwarfs it. The next moment, he tosses it to Kerry.

Kerry catches it, turns it around and over. It’s a small box wrapped in glossy white paper. He glances at Johnny, hoping that his eyebrows can convey the depth of his confusion.

Johnny settles back down on the bed. His eyes glint. “Open it.”

Mentally, Kerry shrugs, but he obeys, prying at imperceptible seams. The paper tears and pulls back. Johnny edges closer, peers over his shoulder, and Kerry opens the box.

Earrings. Two simple golden hoops, side by side.

Johnny fidgets behind him. If they were any further apart, it would have been unnoticeable. “I know you won’t be able to wear ‘em for a while, but—”

Kerry reaches up, fingers the two fresh piercings in his right ear. “I only got these last week. How did you—”

Johnny shrugs. “You’d been talking about it for a while, so—”

Kerry snaps the box shut, drops it, and throws his arms around Johnny. “No way you wrapped that yourself,” he says, because there’s nothing else he could say that wouldn’t give him away entirely.

It takes a moment for Johnny’s arms to wind back around him, but when they finally settle, they’re vicelike.

“Gift wrap,” Johnny replies. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

**2\. Johnny/Rogue**

“Let me get this straight—” V starts. Her eyebrows rise in disaffected bemusement, but the twinkle in her eyes belies the underlying good humor.

“I’m not explaining twice,” Johnny grouses, flicking away some digital ash. “Yes or no?”

V stares at him a minute longer, as if she can somehow divine his true intentions by sufficient visual examination.

“Fine,” she says. “I’m in.”

//

V shouldn’t have agreed that easily, and she knows it full well. Anyone can find a plastic flower nearing Valentine’s day, but for this situation? With this person? That just won’t do. 

Roses. Fucking ‘ganic roses. Who could she ask? The Valentinos? 

Johnny materializes in front of her with a shimmer of static. “V.”

There’s a world of scolding in that tone. V cuts him off by grabbing her phone and punching numbers in.

“V!” he snaps, swiping futilely for the holo as it rings.

“Hey, Padre!” she says, raising a finger to quiet her digital antagonist. “Got an odd request, but thought it might be up your alley—got any idea where to find roses in Night City?”

Padre’s tone rings out from the other end, muffled but distinctly amused. 

“No, not for—actually, not even for me. For a friend.” 

Johnny hasn’t done anything this embarrassing since he was a teenager. 

“Well, yes, for Valentine’s—I’m—I mean, my friend is—fuck, fine  _ I’m  _ going to gift it on my friend’s behalf—you know, I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Johnny’s grimace swaps out for a grin twelve shades meaner. He takes it back. This was a phenomenal idea.

“A fixer,” V hedges. “No, not some upstart, and no, I’m not working for free—”

Her lips flatten, and she casts a desperate glance at Johnny, who simply raises an eyebrow. 

V looks at the receiver like she would at an executioner. “If I tell you the name, you promise to help with the flowers?” She asks. 

He must promise, for V’s face flattens from elaborate wince to a look of grim resignation. 

“Rogue Amendiares,” she says.

Fortunately for V, Padre isn’t the type to yell. Unfortunately for V, he is the type to menace.

“Yes sir,” she says meekly. “Uh-huh. No, no, no, no one is taking advan—I told you, Padre, it’s for a  _ friend _ . Yes, I know she’s old enough to be my—yes, my grandmother.”

_ You owe me,  _ she mouths at Johnny. 

Johnny shrugs, lackadaisical, and accompanies it with a gesture that informs her where she can shove her debt. 

V’s expression brightens. “Knew you’d pull through,” she says. “Thanks, Padre. Nice catching up. Yep. I’ll stop by.” 

She hangs up. 

“How’s dear old dad?” Johnny asks.

“You’re lucky that Padre likes me,” V says with pointed emphasis. “Cause he actually knows where to get floral arrangements.”

_ Lucky  _ you _ like me _ . Johnny thinks. “Thanks, V,” he says.

//

On February 10, 2017, Johnny had made a promise. He’d promised roses and chocolates and expensive alcohol and the other kind of things that cocky men promise the partners they want to impress. On February 12, 2017, Rogue had walked in on him with a groupie. Ugly truths came out, and uglier words followed them. Rogue left. She was right to. February 14, 2017, Johnny spent alone.

On February 10, 2077, Johnny critiques a selection of chocolates and alcohol over V’s shoulder. On February 12, 2077, they visit Padre, V endures a reprise of priestly disapproval, and they leave with a bouquet of roses in hand. On February 14, 2077, V tidies herself up, packs all their purchases in a neat-looking basket, and visits the Afterlife. 

She lets Emmerick peek in, waves off Claire’s curious inquiry, and slides it onto the table in front of Rogue. It speaks a lot to how much Rogue trusts V that doesn’t even scan it before she peeks in.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” V says. “I’m supposed to apologize that it’s overdue.”

“Sixty years.” Rogue extracts the whiskey and pours herself two fingers. “You better not tell that gonk that he’s forgiven.”

Johnny smiles. V laughs. “He hasn’t asked.”

Rogue drinks. A smile crosses her face—bittersweet, like most of her smiles now. For once though, her eyes carry none of their constant analysis, and Johnny counts that as a win.

“Got a job for you,” Rogue says. “But I don’t feel like finding the spec right now. So—” she slides a second glass across the table, pours until it matches hers. “Have a drink.”

V grabs the glass.  _ To Rogue,  _ Johnny says.

V’s gaze glances off of him, and she inclines the glass politely towards her hostess. “To your health and unfading good looks.”

_ Not what I said, V _ . 

_ ‘S what you meant _ .

Rogue raises her glass. “Pray that you’ll look this good at my age.”

_ Tell her I look better _ , Johnny urges.

“Every night before I sleep,” V responds.

Rogue laughs, shaking her head. “Happy Valentine’s, V.”

“Happy Valentine’s.”

**3\. Kerry/V**

V is nervous. V is bored. The two combine to such effect that he’s spending his time at this fancy-ass party counting the crystals on the giant chandelier and composing unfavorable reviews for the venue.

“So, whaddya think?” Kerry asks. “Ready to give up the merc life and sign with a label?”

V sips his champagne. It’s flavorless and expensive, like the majority of the party’s attendees. “Any of these folk have vans that need exploding? The urge struck me thirty minutes in and has yet to leave.”

Kerry laughs, gags, and coughs, all at once. “Not while I’m drinking,” he scolds, once recovered. “Can’t waste the champagne.”

V nabs Kerry’s glass and looks him straight in the eye as he pours the remainder of both glasses into a convenient houseplant.

“V,” Kerry scolds.

“What?” V looks pointedly around. “No one’s watching.”

Kerry shakes his head, exasperation battling with fondness in his eyes. “Party really that bad?”

“Alcohol's fine,” V says. “Dinner was great. But I’ve been in scav haunts with less blatant cutthroats.” 

Kerry laughs. “You got me there. But tell me—when else would I get a chance to dress you up like this?” 

V drags his eyes off of the crowd and onto Kerry’s lecherous grin. An answering grin rises to his face, and he tugs at the edge of his collar, delighting in how his partner’s eyes track the motion.

“Coulda asked,” he says, voice low, rich, and amused. “If you’d gone that way, coulda undressed me too.”

“It’s on the agenda.” Kerry pushes his chair back and stands. “Dance with me?”

V mirrors Kerry’s motions, laces their hands together. Kerry’s thumb brushes against the edges of his cyberware. He smiles at the familiar motion, and they step together onto the dance floor. V misses a few steps in the first rotation, but by their third circle round the floor, the pair have fallen into seamless sync. 

“Honestly, thought you were joking about the dancing,” V says.

“Easiest way to get away from conversation at these things,” Kerry snorts. “Worth the rehearsal?”

V spins him, a steady guide to practiced grace. “I’d say.” When Kerry’s back in his arms, held at a mostly-appropriate distance, he leans just a bit further in and mutters “I’d put up with a lot more to hold you like this.”

Kerry smiles. For the first time, V properly appreciates the tailored golden light suffusing the mansion, because Kerry is always beautiful, but tonight he  _ glows _ .

“You do,” he says. “Every night.”

Something settles in V’s chest. He’s nervous—and the nerves will probably hit again in five minutes—but his heart soars and his pocket burns, so he has to act. When a gap opens between two other dancing pairs, he sweeps Kerry through to the balcony beyond.

The night stretches above them, velvety black. The city reaches out around them, and its distant neon sting war with the permeating glow from the ballroom’s window. Kerry whistles, satisfied, turning to take in the view. 

“Nice work, V. You always find the best—” he falters mid-step and mid-word when his eyes set on V. V who’s frozen like a deer in the headlights, down on one knee.

“What are you doing?” Kerry asks, hoarse.

There are the nerves. 

“I love you.” V blurts. “I love your kids. I love your music. I love your terrible breakfasts and dancing and bedhead. I, uh, don’t know if you want to get married again. But, Ker, you’re it for me. You’re the one.”

The words  _ marry me _ stick on his tongue, so he holds the ring a little higher to compensate.

“You gonk,” Kerry breathes “You utter gonk. You couldn’t have waited an hour?”

V blinks. In that time that takes, Kerry falls to one knee too, matching his posture and holding a mirroring box.

“V…Hell, I could talk all night, write a dozen albums, and not cover half of what I want to say. I love you. Marry me?”

V gapes, then laughs, helpless. Any semblance of good posture dissolves as they lean in, wrapping arms around each other. 

“Yeah,” V says. “Sounds good.”

Kerry laughs into V’s shoulder. “My PR guy is gonna kill you. Or kiss you. He had been planning this so long—”

“I’d rather kiss you,” V murmurs. 

Kerry picks his head up and the two men slot together. They kiss. V pulls away a moment later, before it gets too heated. 

Kerry slips a band onto V’s captive finger. V fumbles for his forgotten ring box to return the favor. When each sits in its appointed place, Kerry laces their fingers together. The moment feels real and poignant and nothing at all like V had imagined.

“C’mon,” Kerry says. “I still feel like dancing.”

Together, they walk into the light.

**4\. Judy/V**

It’s ten o’clock in Night City. V’s finished with work, resting in her apartment, curling into her girlfriend’s chest, and enjoying some rare silence and peace. There’s gotta be a catch somewhere. What’s she forgetting?

Ohhhhh. Right.  _ That _ .

“So,” V says. 

“So?” Judy asks. Her voice rumbles low and satisfied through her chest. V snuggles closer.

“It’s Valentine’s this weekend. Any specific requests?”

Judy’s hand pauses where it’s tangled in V’s hair. “Mm. Honest?”

V stretches up an inch to press a kiss to Judy’s collarbone. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Valentine’s isn’t really my thing. Seen too much of it at Lizzie’s, if you get what I mean.” Rare jade sneaks into Judy’s tone. “You’d think a holiday for love would get people acting right, but—nah. Makes ‘em worse, if anything.”

V curls further into her girlfriend’s side, reminiscing on her own Valentine’s experiences. 

“Valentine’s Day gets the weirdest gigs,” she confesses.

Judy snorts. 

“I’m serious! Some of them are bad weird, but the fixers filter those out, so I only have to deal with normal weird. Well, that and people askin’ favors.”

Judy rolls over to face V. “For example?”

V props her head up, tapping fingers against her chin while she thinks. “Bad weird you can guess. Stalking. Kidnapping. Hits—on an old lover, new lover, jilted ex. Those lead to just normal though, cause people want protection. That can get weird by itself though, cause if you’re working Valentines...”

“They assume you’re free?” Judy asks. Her tone stays flat, but a raised eyebrow does the speaking for her. V raises her hands in surrender.

“I have always turned them down, swear!”

“Mm. What did you say the other day…ought to put a leash on me?”

V relaxes back into their bed. “Not the best idea in my line of work. Really want some Maelstrom gonk to get a grip on me?”

“You have a point,” Judy purrs. “Might just settle for a collar.”

V sputters, blushing. Judy dissolves into giggles, and V flails at her, smacking her conciliatory hands away.

“You, Judy Alvarez, are a terrible, terrible woman!” 

V burrows under the covers, racking her brain for the scattered fragments of thought.

“Normal weird?” Judy prompts, snuggling closer to the lump of blankets. 

“Ah. Yeah. Normal weird is more fun. Got hired one time to deliver a compliment.”

“Huh. How’s that work?”

“Well, first, you meet the guy, cause apparently, he’s very particular. You arrive at the appointed spot, he looks at you and says:” V clears her throat, pitches it down slightly, and paints her tone as worshipful as possible. “‘You are the most spectacular woman I’ve ever met.’”

V’s tone returns to her usual. “Then, if you’re a fucking gonk, you reply ‘Yes sir. What am I delivering?’”

A smile overtakes Judy’s face, widening in gleeful disbelief. “You did not say that.”

“I did!” V groans. “I absolutely did.”

Judy laughs. V flushes but laughs along. She’s a fool, but she knows it full well.

“Of course, turns out the compliment itself was the delivery. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he had me  _ rehearse _ . I had to say it at least a dozen times. Fifteen? Changing my intonation each time: more emotion, less emotion, a different emotion, now like you mean it.”

Judy shakes her head. “Who was it for?”

V fixes her input with a look of deep exasperation. “His wife.”

To her credit, Judy attempts to stifle the laughter at first. But mere moments pass before she’s rolling with laughter, tangling V’s sheets beyond belief. 

“All that,” she wheezes, “To impress someone he’d already married?”

“Apparently it’s a tradition for those two,” V says. Her expression softens. “He asked her out that way for their first date, and now he sends a reprise for every Valentine’s. Wakako allows it cause they pay well and the solos survive.”

Judy sighs. Her hand slips into V’s, warm and soft. 

“Those two have the holiday right,” she says.

“You know who else does?” V asks, struck by a sudden nostalgia. “Grade school kids.”

“I remember that.” Judy’s gaze grows fond and distant. “Shoebox mailboxes. Little candy hearts and red construction paper cards.” she sighs. “Wish I could go back, some days.”

V frowns at a ceiling tile. Ideas start clicking in her head. “Is there a reason you can’t?” she asks.

//

One makeshift mailbox sits on the bedside table. Another waits patiently on the kitchen counter. Outside of their apartment, things get a little trickier. Some notes slip through cracked windows or underneath doors. Some are passed hand to hand. One finds its way into a proper mailbox, and a few notable ones are delivered through daemons left dormant in outer firewalls.

(Judy thought at that point, best not to deliver, but V insists that it’s criminal to leave a job half-done)

They drive and walk and chat. They trade candy hearts coated with sweet sayings. Their fingers grow sticky with sugar, and V jokes about getting chrome teeth just so she won’t have to worry about the cavities. 

_ Be mine?  _ A candy asks. 

Judy fumbles through the bag and pulls out a second.  _ UR MINE, VALENTIN  _ it declares. She frowns and scratches at it with a fingernail until  _ VALENTIN  _ turns into  _ V _ .

“Commit,” she says, with a grin too soft for her tone.

V kisses the sugar off her lips.

**5\. River/V**

So, V was gone. That’s fine. River has no reason to panic. It’s not as if his output works in a profession with a death rate nearing ninety percent. He’s calm. So calm. She even left a clue.

_ Find me where today comes before yesterday.  _

River plants his head on the kitchen table. The impact echoes.

“Still working on that?” Joss asks.

He groans in reply. She leans over the table, reads the note, and chuckles. 

“No guesses yet?”

River reads the note aloud once more. “Who’s me? What am I looking for? Are we talking about a location or a story of some kind? I keep thinking of Alice in Wonderland, but I can’t recall any particular—”

“Dictionary,” Randy says from the couch. “Alphabetical order. Plus, she left it on the table.”

One glance confirms Randy’s assertion. The dictionary does lie on the table, atop a pile of apparently innocuous books.

Motherfucking—

“Whoops,” Randy says, accompanying the remark with a glance up from his phone. “Was that supposed to be hard?”

//

The second clue, when River reads it off the strip of paper jutting from the dictionary right before P turns into O, says 

_ What two words together contain the most letters? _

He has to think about this logically—she can’t just mean the two longest words put together. Unless she made an anagram out of it, that approach would end with a nonsense phrase, at best. So the two words together must create something else. Something to do with letters.

A mailbox!

…

There is nothing in his mailbox. 

He reads the clue again. The most letters. The  _ most _ . Sure, a mailbox has letters inside, but someplace else has more. That one, precarious little word must be key.

He thinks, adjusts course, and moves.

//

The post office isn’t terribly busy this time of day. Or any time of day, in point of fact. River wishes again that V had left better instructions. Is he supposed to go in? Is the paper hidden? Is it even a paper like last time? Should he look for an envelope?

Alright. No more panic. He’s a private eye, not a thirteen-year-old walking through a lingerie store. He can handle one small investigation.

The envelope is taped to the door. She’s written his name on it and doodled a little heart at the end. 

He cracks open the letter with a smile.

_ Hey Babe!  _

_ As much as I admire your investigative genius, I am shit at leaving clues, so this will be your last one. Work carefully. _

  * _The man who invented it doesn’t need it. The man who bought it doesn’t want it. The man who needs it doesn’t know. What is it?_


  * When you’re there, where else can you be said to be?



_ See you by six! ;) _

_ V _

River fixes his stare on the clock with staunch determination. It’s 5:45. He can do this. Within fifteen minutes, he can solve the riddles and reach his final, mystery, destination. For V, he can do anything.

//

At 6:27, V’s phone pings. She struts out of the Afterlife with a grin. River leans against the doorway.

“Sorry I’m late,” he begins. “Did we miss anythi—”

V cuts him off with a kiss.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says as she pulls back. “You’re just in time.”

River chuckles, relieved. “Happy Valentine’s. What was the deadline for? Just to make me panic?” 

V arches an eyebrow. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

River shakes his head with a lazy grin. V can tell what he’s thinking by the skim of his eyes, and she would agree. She’s no lady. She slides her arm into his, taking advantage of his distraction and their proximity to lead him to the limited parking outside.

“C’mon. I’ll drive.”

“Oh? And do I get to know where we’re going?”

“Out.”

“No riddles, but no straight answers either.”

The drive takes them out of the city to an overlooking ridge. The sun sprawls across the skyline, drenching them and the rest of the city in gold. V pops the trunk of her car, revealing the interior. There’s a basket, a blanket, and a bottle of wine.

River smooths one hand against her shoulder and pulls out the basket with the other. “A picnic?”

V shrugs. “Nothing fancy, but I thought you’d appreciate some time off and together. Notes, for time off. This for time together. Would’ve invited you into the Afterlife, properly but, well—”

“Thank goodness you didn’t,” River laughs. He pulls her in for a second kiss, just as tender as their first. “Thank you, V. This is perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” she retorts.

They lay out the blanket together, kicking away stones that threaten their comfort. The basket follows it, and the wine follows that. Finally, they pour a glass, raise a glass towards each other, and drink to the future.

**6\. Panam/V**

V learned a lot from his time in Night City. He learned some things about shooting and some things about boxing. He learned a few things about stealth and a lot of things about the net. He learned no less than twenty new ways to apply his limited tech skills to the architecture and technology of the city. Most crucially, he’s learned that sometimes it’s simplest to just break a window.

The glass shatters into a thousand little cries and cuts. V brushes a gloved hand carefully against the sill. Sharp-edged shards slip musically to the floor. Satisfied, he clambers through.

Not all of his solo skills serve him well now that he’s joined the Aldecaldos, but that one usually checks out.

His goal stands right in front of him, betrayed by the pink-toned decor outside. Heart-shaped boxes fill the display. A Kiroshi scan confirms V’s expectations—chocolates wait inside. V grabs a box. Then another, in case Mitch makes fun of him. Then one more for the kids.

Next comes the card. He strides over to the spinning thingy and spins it with one hand, reading titles and dismissing titles as they appear. Too genuine. Too cheesy. Unreadable font. Weird color. Lame joke. Three rotations and no decision later, he spins it hard, closes his eyes, and grabs one at random. 

_ I’ve got a PIZZA you in my heart!  _

Perfect. He grabs an envelope that doesn’t match it in the slightest, adds both items to the top of his stack, and proceeds to the next item on his list.

For this one, he’ll have to hop the counter. After a thoughtless move sends the pile skyward, V decides to put the chocolates down first.

He rifles through the cabinets with care, poring over display catalogs until he finds the perfect choice. Item extracted, he pulls it over to the pump and tries to make heads or tails of the instruction. That piece should go—yeah, right over that bit. Is that secure? Does it need an extra tie?

An engine cuts off outside.

“V!” Panam yells. “V! Where are you?”

V moves faster—no time left for careful deliberation. The pump whines under his frantic hands.

Panam’s feet fall closer. “Come on out. If you didn’t want me to find you, you should not have parked on the street.”

Panam still manages to make V feel like an amateur. What a gal. His fingers fumble around a string, fastening it tightly. It nearly slips out of his hands, and he curses at the crinkling as he grabs it.

“V?” Her voice comes from right outside.

The chocolates!

When Panam leaps through the window. V leans against the counter. There’s a pink balloon with a lacy design tied to his wrist, and a tower of chocolates in his arms. He waves, trying to act casual.

“‘Sup?” he says.

Panam blinks. “Are you…?”

“Committing a robbery?” V asks. “No. Definitely not. Well, that depends. Does it count as a robbery if the store is abandoned?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it shouldn’t.” He extends one of the boxes towards her. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Pan.”

Panam cracks the box open, tentative, and pops a truffle in her mouth. Seemingly satisfied, she offers one to V. He leans over to take it in his mouth and she snorts, running her other hand through his hair.

“Tasty,” he says around the treat. “Starting to appreciate this Valentine’s thing more and more.”

“I can think of other things I appreciate,” Panam says. “Like you, for one.”

“Aww, Pan—” V coos.

“The holiday must be getting to me,” she huffs. “Do not let it go to your head.”

“It won’t,” V assures her. He lets the balloon loose from his wrist, sets the chocolates down, and steps closer to Panam. “But you know what could?”

When they finally arrive back in camp, three hours later than they were expected, there’s a balloon tied to the tailgate and a teddy bear riding shotgun. Mitch laughs till he’s blue in the face.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can think of how any other pairings would spend their day, let me know and I might write something up. Happy Valentine's!


End file.
